


Gifts

by felinefelicitations



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Blindfolds, F/M, Falling In Love, Insecurity, Love, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Romance, Rope Bondage, Scar Kissing, War Paint, hand kissing, it's That Myth, this touches on that extremely noncon voyeurism myth with the net, ungraphically as possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29534232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felinefelicitations/pseuds/felinefelicitations
Summary: "War's an ugly thing," you tell her once; the stars are thick in the sky, smell of summer heat fading yet, the torchlight and victory feast ongoing."How odd," she says. Her finger traces the back of your hand, light as the secret in her smile, hotter than any brand. "You never make it seem that way."“I assure you, it is only the company,” you say. “You have a gift.”
Relationships: Aphrodite/Ares (Hades Video Game), Ares & Hephaestus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 63





	Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> so where did that war paint stripe come from anyway?

You meet your brother’s wife, another trophy to go with the others he has been collecting all his life. She’s beautiful, as fine as all of the fine things that pass under his hands, and he cares about her as much as any of his other things. Your brother gives her gifts that alter endlessly, because there is no appearance that is without flaw in his mind.

You’d pity him, except he is not worth even that much.

“You must be Ares,” she says with a smile.

***

Hephaestus took Aphrodite the way he takes everything: emulating your father. He saw a pretty thing, he wanted it, and he did what it took to get it and now he has a pretty wife to add to all the other pretty things in his life.

If you cared, you'd tell Hephaestus all the pretty in the world won’t change your family’s mind; you don’t.

(You stopped caring about your equally abandoned younger brother the moment you realized he only ever saw you as a means to an end. You could have told him you were the worst way to earn their affection; you didn't.

Violence does not always need to be breaking bones. You hope he chokes on his desperation.)

***

“So tell me about yourself,” Aphrodite says, smiling like a secret you’d like to know. She’s beautiful, yes, which is its own kind of danger—men have started wars for less.

You give the barest smile back, polite. You are certain she’s heard of you already; she knew your name when you arrived. You are equally certain none of what she heard was kind.

(You know you are fortunate your father likes the idea of being better than his own too much to ever kill you; you also know he would like to, dearly, because you remind him he is only barely less base.)

“There is little to tell,” you tell her. “I am a creature of humble pleasures, I suppose. Tell me, Lady Aphrodite, how do you find Olympus?”

She pouts, lips a perfect bow.

“Good enough, _I suppose_ ,” half mocking you, but then that smile comes back, eyes sparkling. “Won’t you tell me even a little of where you go?”

***

She loves the colour of war, Aphrodite. It suits her—it stains her cheeks a sunrise flush, makes her eyes shine. She twines a long strand of hair that has fallen free around one finger, pries and begs for details: their spark, their glory, their passion.

You wonder, sometimes, if it only seems more beautiful because she is the one listening; you tell her the stories she begs for anyway. It is a simple thing, and you enjoy humble pleasures—it is rare to have anyone care for war the way you see it, let alone to make it shine.

"War's an ugly thing," you tell her once; the stars are thick in the sky, smell of summer heat fading yet, the torchlight and victory feast ongoing.

"How odd," she says. Her finger traces the back of your hand, light as the secret in her smile, hotter than any brand. "You never make it seem that way."

“I assure you, it is only the company,” you say. “You have a gift.”

You do not move your hand away, do not comment as her finger traces circles, nail the barest brush. You do not clench a fist, though you want to, desperately.

You do take a sip of your own wine, keep your eyes on her face. You do turn your hand palm up; her fingers trace there, too.

“Do I?” Aphrodite asks. She tilts her head, takes another sip of wine that stains her lips; her tongue traces pink after a drop.

“If anyone could make the grit of war a pearl, Lady Aphrodite, it would be you.”

She smiles at that, laughs. She snorts just a little when she laughs, which makes her flush, pull her hand away to press to her mouth to stifle the sound, and you cannot help it—you smile wide, you smile enough there are teeth, you lean forward to chase her touch, to reach for her wrist.

“My dear lady, I hardly see the jest,” you say; you dare to curl your hand around her wrist, dare to tug her hand away, and she laughs and snorts and tries to smother it all over again. You think your grin might split your face.

“Stop,” she gasps; you let go, let her catch her breath. “Surprising me that way. Here everyone calls you a brute, and maybe you are. I _hate_ laughing like that, dear, you should be more careful.”

“I have no idea why,” you say.

“Oh come now, laughing like a pig is hardly the image of beauty, surely you agree?”

You do not know much about beauty—it is not your domain. What you do know is that if her laugh is ugly, you do not want anything to do with beauty at all.

“But it is your laughter,” you tell her. “How could it be anything but beautiful?”

Aphrodite tilts her head; she takes a sip of her wine. She reaches out, twines her fingers in yours. Her hands are small, fine, full of a different sort of grace from your own. There is an old scar on one knuckle, tiny. She watches you and you look back; you keep looking even as you dare to bring her hand close, dare to press your lips to that little knick, that imperfection that creates perfection.

“Brute,” she says, quiet; her eyes gleam in the low light of the torches.

It does not sound an insult, when she says it. It sounds a kindness; it sounds a promise. It sounds many, many things, few of which you know.

(All of which you would like to know, as dearly as you wish to know the secret in her smile. If she would give it to you; if she would tell you it.)

“Come here,” and she rises, her grip tight on your hand.

You follow.

***

The insides of her thighs are soft all the ways the floor is not against your knees. There is a scar on the left, sensitive and tender. You breathe on it; she twists your hair in her hands. You kiss it, open mouthed and hot; her breath stutters, her heels press into your shoulders.

You will kiss that scar every time you go before her.

***

You do not enjoy lingering on Olympus; the only conflict is one you do not own. You prefer mortal hearts—at least they are right to blame you for their woes when you stride the battlefield.

You linger anyway. Hephaestus is often busy pursuing perfection he will never achieve; Aphrodite is equally often free.

You meet her in her gardens; she drapes herself in flowing fabrics, stains her lips, twists up her hair. She wears torcs and armbands and brilliant golden girdles, she hides the sunspots sprayed across her shoulders.

(You know each of them a constellation. If you were lost, you’d need to look only at her bare shoulders to find the way home.)

You do not tell her she is more beautiful without all her finery. You do not tell her she cannot make what is perfect more so. You trace the fold of her himation and what it hides and keep your wild heart to yourself; it is not your place. What do you know of beauty?

“Should I bring you gold?” you ask her, idle.

“No,” Aphrodite says. “You bring me something far finer already.”

***

You linger.

(It is not the season for war anyway.)

You learn.

You learn the tempo of her pulse, how if you rest your hands on her ribs it speeds, how if you lay your head against her breast it calms. You learn the hollow of her throat—how her sweat pools there, how she hates that, how she gasps and smothers snorting laughter when you drag the tip of your nose over a clavicle. You learn her ears are not quite the same size, how she uses her hair to hide that, how her nails will claw your shoulders if you dare to graze your teeth along the edge, how the left is far more sensitive than the right.

You find that deep purple birthmark just under her right breast; you consider it, you trace your nose over it. She presses a hand to your cheek and you still to look up at her.

“It looks a little like a cow, doesn’t it?” she asks, nose wrinkling. “ _Awful_.”

You tilt your head. Consider.

“Yes,” you agree.

Aphrodite smacks you for it; you kiss the mark, blow against the skin wetly. You grin when she shoves you back, shrieking and choking on laughter. Let her shove you to your back so your positions reversed, smile up at her as you await your judgement.

“You weren’t meant to _agree_ ,” she scolds. “Brute.”

Her hands stroke your chest; one pauses at an old scar, follows mended flesh. You dare set your own on her thighs.

“You wish a lie?” you ask.

“No.”

“It is a very beautiful cow,” you offer.

Aphrodite laughs again and you dare to slip your hands up her thighs, over her hips, to her waist. You rub your thumbs over the tender skin of her stomach, feel the give and softness of her, her curves, her weight.

“The most beautiful,” you add.

She shakes her head, slides her hands up to your shoulders as she leans down.

“There has never been a more beautiful cow in all creation,” you say—you begin to say, but she smothers you with a kiss; you can feel her laughter trapped beneath her ribs as you slide your hands up, taste it spilling into your mouth before she leans up only enough to smother it to giggles.

“Shush,” Aphrodite says, “you’re ruining the moment.”

If this is ruin, you rather think you like it.

***

Of course you get caught.

It is not you you care about; you have endured a lifetime of scorn. You listen to kin comment on her thighs, her skin, her shoulders; you listen to her broken down to all her pieces and none of her whole; you listen as she is made a pretty thing to be observed, mocked, and not a woman full of laughter and gossip and love of simple stories.

(Made a thing to be owned.)

You want to hide her in storms; you want to tear throats out with your teeth. There is a wildness in your heart, your pulse, as you have not felt in years, decades, aeons.

You are caught in your brother’s net like the beast you are; you can do nothing.

“Sh,” she murmurs in your ear.

Not all fights are battlefields; not all courage is found with a blade in hand. There is a reason mortal poets beg you temper tempers—sometimes courage is nobility when everything in you wishes for war.

“This is not your fight,” Aphrodite whispers gentle.

It is not your place to fight her battles.

(You would fight them anyway.)

When you are both released, Aphrodite does not flush. She kisses your cheek, then you move so she can rise. She does not cover herself as she faces your kin, those men who seek to tame her as if she is a thing and not a god herself. The silence descends quickly; it smothers that last chuckle from your uncle. She stares each of them down, chin tilted up, hands on her hips and so, so much more than only beauty.

They look away, eventually; Aphrodite laughs.

“But you wanted to see me, did you not?” she asks. She holds out her arms, does a little spin. She steps closer; they away. She smiles, teeth sharp as the sea born truth she is.

“You are all so _lucky_ I’m more merciful than Artemis,” she says. “Go on, you can go, dears, I’m sure you’ve had your fun now.”

They do; it is only she and you and your brother who still doesn’t know who he’s tried to make a pretty thing to own.

Aphrodite takes the net from Hephaestus’ hands, looks it over.

“Get out, Ares,” Aphrodite says. “I need to have words with my husband.”

You go.

(It is not your battle to fight, yet it is the only one you want.)

***

You have lingered on Olympus quite enough, but you linger a little more anyway. It would not do to leave without farewells.

(Dare to think you will get them.)

Aphrodite arrives barefoot at your hall, still nude, hair all down. She arrives and she stands before where you are sitting, sharpening a blade. You set the blade aside; you look up at her.

You should have been more careful. This is your fault; you have always forgotten to be cautious. You could have kept this from happening.

You open your mouth to apologize and she places her hand over it. You close it. You let her look. You wish there were anything else you could do.

(You want so desperately to apologize; beneath all that tempest fury at your kin in your breast is an ache you have no words for. You would go to your knees for her, press your face to the floor for her, beg a forgiveness you do not deserve.

You could have avoided this, if only you had been a little less yourself.)

Aphrodite slips her hand to your cheek and though you should not, you close your eyes and press your face into her palm. Breathe in that sea warm scent of her.

“What would you have of me?” you murmur.

“A war,” she says.

(You have always given her the best of war in your stories—the glory, the courage, the passion. You have kept that exhaustion and grime and mud for yourself. You have tried, perhaps foolishly, to not reveal how simple a thing you truly are.)

“You shall have as many wars as you like,” you say, and dare to kiss her palm.

(You hope, foolishly, it is not the last she will allow the gesture.)

You open your eyes, look up at her again. There is still an edge to her, a wildness in the set of her mouth, the light of her eyes.

You are not the only one stirred to tempest fury.

“Is there naught else I can give you?” you ask. You would give her anything—you would kill her husband, if she but asked.

(You hope she asks. You know if she does, you will be killed in turn by a father who has always, always been looking for an excuse; kin slaying not by his hand would certainly be one.)

“You can give me war,” Aphrodite says.

***

You give Aphrodite war.

A fine crafted war is a beautiful thing, a fact even Athena cannot disagree with, but you do not have any of those at the ready. You have this: war for the sake of war. Ugly, bloody, torn from the earth too soon.

(You have what you are; it is always all that you have had, since you first left that wild wood and the wolves that taught you the joy of tearing through underbrush, the euphoria of a howl for no other reason than you are alive, the creature comfort of resting your head against a shoulder. You did not come back to Olympus to find home; you left home to see the place that had abandoned you to the woods.)

You give Aphrodite what you adore—the din and noise, earth turned to mud, more violence than sense. You inflame hearts well past even the thought of retreat on both sides so that victory does not even look like victory.

Aphrodite laughs, snorting, when you grow irritated at broken courage; she sighs prettily when whole cohorts fall. She slips her arms around your neck from behind and kisses your pulse, rests her cheek against your face despite blood and smoke and mud. She delights and sometimes, rarely, makes a heart that is ready to break from fear sing brighter, fills the cracks with love—love of family, love of brothers in arms, love of life—so they do not falter. She does not change a thing, only aids, adds, makes _more_.

When the sun sets weeks later, when that too soon torn up war falls apart, Aphrodite takes your hands.

“I would have all of war,” she says, her smile back, true; the tempest of her calm once more. “Come with me.”

You follow. You would follow her anywhere, but she only takes you to your hall, your room you so rarely bother to stay at. There are better places for sleep.

Aphrodite pushes you to sit on the bed; her hands work at armor a moment before she pouts. You laugh at her, earn a smack to the nose that makes your eyes sting, but you will the armor away so you are only in your tunic and she sets herself on your lap. You dare to rest your hands on her waist as she presses her forehead to yours.

You do not need temples; no worship can compare to her smile, her eyes, her fingers tracing slow lines light against your shoulders.

“Will you let me have you, Ares?” she asks, as if she needs to ask.

“Yes,” you say. If it gives you her laughter; if it gives you her scars, her marks, all the parts of herself she hates.

(Even if it does not; she loves war, Aphrodite, even the way you tell it—ugly and brutish and feral. No one else does; no one has wanted the kind of wars you make. You would give her anything, everything.)

She blindfolds you first, slips that tunic from you so the air prickles cold next. She ties your hands, your arms, slips soft cloth ribbon you could break so easily around your breast. She binds you so you cannot move; you let her. You would let her anything, everything.

It makes your heart pound fear, tastes copper on the back of your tongue; you remember when last you were bound and blind well.

You could break this—it is only ribbon. Cloth.

Aphrodite leans down, kisses your temple. Her hand traces along that strip of cloth running along your breastbone, moves to rest above your heart. She smells of sea, of sun, of musk. She hums so sweetly against your temple, straddling your hips, each place her skin touches bright contact that makes you tremble.

“Sh,” she soothes. “I won’t keep you, Ares.”

She says your name like a beautiful thing; you still.

(You are glad you are bound; your chest feels it might crack.)

She kisses you, coaxes your mouth open with a tug of her teeth, takes. She would have you; you would let her. Do. She explores, swipes her tongue across the roof of your mouth; she kisses slow and easy as the tides, as if she has all of time.

(She does. You would stay this way for her, if she asked.)

You shudder when she pulls back; she giggles, taps your nose with a finger.

“Be good,” she tells you; you still again. She pushes you further back as she slides down; you stay still as her fingers trace over all your scars. As she kisses them each in turn, then again, then again, then again until you are shaking, until the only thing that holds you together is all the ribbon she has bound you with, until each touch makes you flinch from tension drawn tight.

Then she takes you in hand and starts again.

She rides you until the blindfold is soaked with tears, until your voice too wet to break when you pray her name, until all you are is her pleasure echoing in your bones. She takes and takes and takes; she sighs and moans and hums. Her nails dig into your skin bright lines; she snorts laughter when you flinch, then presses kisses to the brands.

When she has her fill, she finally, finally allows you to break. To drown.

“Ssh,” she soothes, resting so her face presses to the top of your head, so your face is pressed against her pulse.

You are not sure you can; breaking is not a thing you have often done, and there is so much she has drawn from you.

“Hush.” Her fingers press light into your hair, smooth down your skull, along the back of your ear, rest at your pulse. She hums, draws back and it tears a noise from your throat you have not made ever, an ache at loss like you’ve never known.

“I’m here, darling, dearest, my beloved brute, hush. I only want to get you all undone, hmm?”

The ribbons first; the blindfold last.

You blink up at her, eyes wet, face wet; her hands cup your face and she smiles. You want to kiss her smile. You always want to kiss her smile. You always want to kiss her. You want to kiss all of her: that wine stain birthmark at her breast, her hair, her temple, the hollow of her throat, the scar at her thigh and the knick on her knuckle. The curves of her, the valleys, the fine lines that mark where skin stretches, the pale blue of veins at the backs of her knees that give marble life.

“Oh, Ares,” she sighs and kisses you.

She lays down, pulls your head to her breast, holds you in her arms and you cling to her, curl against her warmth that is so like a home you left behind, that creature comfort you did not think you’d ever know again.

“What is beauty?” she asks you as you doze against her.

You still don’t know, not really. It is not your domain.

You know what it is to you.

“A cow,” you murmur, rub your thumb over her birthmark.

She laughs, then chokes a snort, and doesn’t try to stifle it as she sets her hand on yours. You smile into her skin, eyes closed, listen to her heart. Press the beat into your bones. You’ve forgotten north—but you don’t need it.

Only her.

***

“What you need,” Aphrodite says as you prepare to leave Olympus for a while, to roam as you like best to do, “is paint.”

You pause fastening your cloak.

“Paint?”

“Yes. Here, sit so I can reach your face, dearest.”

You do, wary. You do not much like paints and stains; they are not your domain.

Aphrodite laughs at you, pushes your hair back from your face. She has a bowl in hand, promised paint thick and white.

“Close your eyes.”

It is cool over your skin, her fingers skillful. You keep them closed as it dries, as she draws from one temple to the other a line that makes your skin heat, remembering a different sort of line she pressed over your eyes, one cloth and warm.

“There,” she says, pleased. “Now everyone will know you mine.”

You open your eyes, blink up at her. You are not entirely sure how you feel.

(Warm. Mostly warm, to be claimed by her. As if you not the humble beast of wood and mud and blood you are.)

Aphrodite sets the bowl aside, takes up your laurels, and crowns you.

“How lovely,” she sighs. “Now go have fun.”

You dare to reach, clasp her waist and pull her close. Dare to kiss her lips, taste her laughter, taste her sigh. She pulls back only a little, tosses her hair, the corners of her eyes crinkling as a grins splits her face wide, true, sharp.

“What should I bring you back?” you ask.

“You,” she says, and blesses you one last kiss before you go.

***

You know very little of love and even less of beauty, but what you know are shoulders covered in sunspots, a birthmark that, if you squint just a bit, looks a little like a cow, and the taste of laughter that often chokes and snorts. What you know is love and beauty are imperfections; they are a woman you would not change for all the world, but you would change yourself for if she asked.

What you know is she does not ask that.

What she asks is only you.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/felinefelix1)


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